Julia Quinn - It’s In His Kiss

“In some ways,” Lord St. Clair continued, a slow, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face, “it’s an interesting question.”

Gareth just stared at him, too angry to give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant.

“Who, pray tell,” the baron mused, “is your father?”

Gareth caught his breath. It was the first time the baron had ever come out and asked it so directly. He’d called Gareth a by-blow, he’d called him a mongrel and a mangy whelp. And he had called Gareth’s mother plenty of other, even less flattering things. But he’d never actually come out and pondered the question of Gareth’s paternity.

And it made him wonder-had he learned the truth?

“You’d know better than I,” Gareth said softly.

The moment was electric, with silence rocking the air. Gareth didn’t breathe, would have stopped his heart from beating if he could have done, but in the end all Lord St. Clair said was, “Your mother wouldn’t say.”

Gareth eyed him warily. His father’s voice was still laced with bitterness, but there was something else there, too, a certain probing, testing quality. Gareth realized that the baron was feeling him out, trying to see if Gareth had learned something of his paternity.

“It’s eating you alive,” Gareth said, unable to keep from smiling. “She wanted someone else more than you, and it’s killing you, even after all these years.”

For a moment he thought the baron might strike him, but at the last minute, Lord St. Clair stepped back, his arms stiff at his sides. “I didn’t love your mother,” he said.

“I never thought you had,” Gareth replied. It had never been about love. It had been about pride. With the baron, it was always about pride.

“I want to know,” Lord St. Clair said in a low voice. “I want to know who it was, and I will give you the satisfaction of admitting to that desire. I have never forgiven her for her sins. But you…you…” He laughed, and the sound shivered right into Gareth’s soul.

“You are her sins,” the baron said. He laughed again, the sound growing more chilling by the second. “You’ll never know. You will never know whose blood passes through your veins. And you’ll never know who didn’t love you well enough to claim you.”

Gareth’s heart stopped.

The baron smiled. “Think about that the next time you ask Miss Bridgerton to dance. You’re probably nothing more than the son of a chimney sweep.” He shrugged, the motion purposefully disdainful. “Maybe a footman. We always did have strapping young footmen at Clair Hall.”

Gareth almost slapped him. He wanted to. By God, he itched to, and it took more restraint than he’d ever known he possessed not to do it, but somehow he managed to remain still.

“You’re nothing but a mongrel,” Lord St. Clair said, walking to the door. “That’s all you’ll ever be.”

“Yes, but I’m your mongrel,” Gareth said, smiling cruelly. “Born in wedlock, even if not by your seed.” He stepped forward, until they were nearly nose to nose. “I’m yours.”

The baron swore and moved away, grasping the door-knob with shaking fingers.

“Doesn’t it just slay you?”

“Don’t attempt to be better than you are,” the baron hissed. “It’s too painful to watch you try.”

And then, before Gareth could get in the last word, the baron stormed out of the room.

For several seconds Gareth didn’t move. It was as if something in his body recognized the need for absolute stillness, as if a single motion might cause him to shatter.

And then-

His arms pumped madly through the air, his fingers curling into furious claws. He clamped his teeth together to keep from screaming, but sounds emerged all the same, low and guttural.

Wounded.

He hated this. Dear God, why?

Why why why?

Why did the baron still have this sort of power over him? He wasn’t his father. He’d never been his father, and damn it all, Gareth should have been glad for that.

And he was. When he was in his right mind, when he could think clearly, he was.

But when they were face-to-face, and the baron was whispering all of Gareth’s secret fears, it didn’t matter.

There was nothing but pain. Nothing but the little boy inside, trying and trying and trying, always wondering why he was never quite good enough.

“I need to leave,” Gareth muttered, crashing through the door into the hall. He needed to leave, to get away, to not be with people.

He wasn’t fit company. Not for any of the reasons his father said, but still, he was likely to-

“Mr. St. Clair!”

He looked up.

Hyacinth.

She was standing in the hall, alone. The light from the candles seemed to leap against her hair, bringing out rich red undertones. She looked lovely, and she somehow looked…complete.

Her life was full, he realized. She might not have been married, but she had her family.

She knew who she was. She knew where she belonged.

And he had never felt more jealous of another human being than he did in that moment.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He didn’t say anything, but that never stopped Hyacinth. “I saw your father,” she said softly. “Down the hall. He looked angry, and then he saw me, and he laughed.”

Gareth’s fingernails bit into his palms.

“Why would he laugh?” Hyacinth asked. “I hardly know the man, and-”

He had been staring at a spot past her shoulder, but her silence made his eyes snap back to her face.

“Mr. St. Clair?” she asked softly. “Are you sure there is nothing wrong?” Her brow was crinkled with concern, the kind one couldn’t fake, then she added, more softly, “Did he say something to upset you?”

His father was right about one thing. Hyacinth Bridgerton was good. She may have been vexing, managing, and often annoying as hell, but inside, where it counted, she was good.

And he heard his father’s voice.

You’ll never have her.

You’re not good enough for her.

You’ll never-

Mongrel. Mongrel. Mongrel.

He looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes sweeping from her face to her shoulders, laid bare by the seductive décolletage of her dress. Her breasts weren’t large, but they’d been pushed up, surely by some contraption meant to tease and entice, and he could see the barest hint of her cleavage, peeking out at the edge of the midnight blue silk.

“Gareth?” she whispered.

She’d never called him by his given name before. He’d told her she could, but she hadn’t yet done so. He was quite certain of that.

He wanted to touch her.

No, he wanted to consume her.

He wanted to use her, to prove to himself that he was every bit as good and worthy as she was, and maybe just to show his father that he did belong, that he wouldn’t corrupt every soul he touched.

But more than that, he just plain wanted her.

Her eyes widened as he took a step toward her, halving the distance between them.

She didn’t move away. Her lips parted, and he could hear the soft rush of her breath, but she didn’t move.

She might not have said yes, but she didn’t say no.

He reached out, snaking his arm around her back, and in an instant she was pressed against him. He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He needed her, for more than just his body.

And he needed her now.

His lips found hers, and he was none of the things one should be the first time. He wasn’t gentle, and he wasn’t sweet. He did no seductive dance, idly teasing her until she couldn’t say no.

He just kissed her. With everything he had, with every ounce of desperation coursing through his veins.

His tongue parted her lips, swooped inside, tasting her, seeking her warmth. He felt her hands at the back of his neck, holding on for all she was worth, and he felt her heart racing against chest.

She wanted him. She might not understand it, she might not know what to do with it, but she wanted him.

And it made him feel like a king.

His heart pounded harder, and his body began to tighten. Somehow they were against a wall, and he could barely breathe as his hand crept up and around, skimming over her ribs until he reached the soft fullness of her breast. He squeezed-softly, so as not to scare her, but with just enough strength to memorize the shape of her, the feel, the weight in his hand.

It was perfect, and he could feel her reaction through her dress.

He wanted to take her into his mouth, to peel the dress from her body and do a hundred wicked things to her.

He felt the resistance slip from her body, heard her sigh against his mouth. She’d never been kissed before; he was quite certain of that. But she was eager, and she was aroused. He could feel it in the way her body pressed against his, the way her fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders.

“Kiss me back,” he murmured, nibbling at her lips.

“I am,” came her muffled reply.

He drew back, just an inch. “You need a lesson or two,” he said with a smile. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you good at this.”

He leaned in to kiss her once more-dear God, he was enjoying this-but she wriggled away.

“Hyacinth,” he said huskily, catching her hand in his. He tugged, intending to pull her back against him, but she yanked her hand free.

Gareth raised his brows, waiting for her to say something.

This was Hyacinth, after all. Surely she’d say something.

But she just looked stricken, sick with herself.

And then she did the one thing he never would have thought she’d do.

She ran away.

The next morning. Our heroine is sitting on her bed, perched against her pillows. The Italian diary is at her side, but she has not picked it up.

She has relived the kiss in her mind approximately forty-two times.